In All But Stature
by LadyShadowcat
Summary: Being a crossover scenario that doesn't actually involve Bilbo and John being the same person, or Sherlock and Smaug. Just a silly bit of fun.
1. Chapter 1

On Tuesday morning, John is significantly (and most curiously) shorter.

That's the most obvious difference, but Sherlock just as soon notices everything else that isn't quite right. Longer, curlier hair, huge bare feet that are as fully covered with hair as his head, rough-spun clothes, and a general lack of composure.

(Tired, has spent a great deal of time outdoors, recently recovered from a cold—these are all observations Sherlock makes, but none of his deductions quite manage to answer the main question in his mind.)

"Good heavens," Not John says, "but I believe I was supposed to find a dragon, not a… a house, and one of you Big Folk."

"A dragon?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "What were you doing, looking for a dragon?" For argument's sake, he decides not to share the obvious—that dragons don't exist.

"It's a secret quest," Not John explains, "and I don't know you, so I shan't tell you the details. But if you're not the dragon I'm looking for, then might you tell me where he is, or how I managed to miss him? He is very large, I understand, and the truth is, I have a dwarven King to impress, so I should like to be getting back."

By now, Sherlock has reasoned that this most certainly isn't John Watson, not even if he were to have contracted a height-altering disease (of which none exists, of course) and momentarily lost hold of his sanity. That leaves the question of where his blogger has gone, and why he has been replaced by a man bearing his resemblance in all but stature.

He doesn't like this situation, though. It borders dangerously on the inexplicable, which by nature makes Sherlock extraordinarily uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I can't help you," he says. "Dragons don't exist, and there are no dwarves in the royal families of any current country."

The small version of John looks disappointed. "I see."

"However," Sherlock continues, "I may be able to help you, if you explain what happened to you. Who are you?"

That seems to brighten up the little man's features. "I'll warn you, it's a long story. Shall I begin with my own part in the tale? My name is Bilbo Baggins, and until recently I have lived a peaceful and pleasant life in the Shire, in my home in Bag End. Perhaps I should fill you in on the details of Thorin's life as well—he's the dwarven king, mind you, and a very important figure in this story."

Sherlock frowns. Which shire, he wonders? A rural area, he assumes, though the details of Bilbo's person are too foreign for him to deduce properly. "Begin by telling me how you ended up here in my flat."

"I walked through a secret door in the side of the Lonely Mountain," comes the reply. (Sherlock knows of no place called The Lonely Mountain, though perhaps it is a local name that he has somehow not heard before.)

"A secret door led you into my flat," Sherlock restates.

"It appears so." Bilbo shrugs.

"And when was this?"

"Not but three minutes ago, I should think," Bilbo replies.

"Show me where," Sherlock instructs, and Bilbo leads him to a place in the hallway directly in front of the closet door. Dragons and delusions—perhaps someone had shut this fellow inside (though for what purpose?) and all this talk of secret doors was the nonsense it sounded like.

"I do apologize for intruding," Bilbo says after a moment. "I hadn't planned on sneaking into anyone's home today—besides Smaug's, of course, but that is something of a different situation, you see, him being a dragon and everything."

Sherlock just nods. He is annoyed by the intrusion, but curious as well. There's a part of his brain still working in overdrive trying to work out exactly who and what this little fellow is, but he defies rational explanation, true enough.

He does have an idea, though. He reaches out a hand and pulls the closet door open, preparing to find a disruption on the inside that would support his earlier theory.

Instead, he sees a rocky mountainside, overlooking an expanse of land with stunted growth and the forms of gnarled, blackened trees. Beside him, Bilbo Baggins makes an excited squeak.

"So it was that simple! I only needed to go back through the door! How fortunate that it works both ways."

Sherlock thinks he might have a migraine coming on. If the secret door, one that can apparently magically transport people back and forth between two very separate places, did in fact exist, did that mean that there was also truth to the talk of dragons and dwarf kings?

He stares at the closet door and the glimpse of the other world peeking through on the other side. "And you claim there are dragons in this world of yours?"

"Oh, yes. Now, if you don't mind, I have a quest to carry out, and my role is vitally important, so if you don't mind, I'll be on my way." Bilbo gives a cheerful little wave and without another word hastens back to his own world.

Sherlock does the best thing he can and closes the closet door. He waits three seconds, then opens it again, hoping to see a regular closet.

Unfortunately, the mountainside is still there, but perhaps that's for the best—there's still no sign of the real John Watson.

Sherlock gives it a few moments' thought, then decides to return to his reading. John can take care of himself, but if he's gone for too long, then perhaps Sherlock will go searching for him.

* * *

Fortunately, there's no need to send a search party, because John comes stumbling into the room a few hours later.

"Sherlock, you'll never believe what's happened to me," he gasps. "I've… I've talked to a bloody dragon! A bloody dragon, Sherlock."

"Smaug, yes?"

John just blinks. "How did you know?"

"The door goes two ways, John."

(They will, of course, have to work out just what to do with the seemingly magical closet at some point in the future, but not before a bit of studying.)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay, people kept demanding more, and these are fun to write. Sadly my Smaug!muse wasn't working, so I've given John some elves and dwarves to talk to instead, but I may do yet another chapter featuring more Smaug.**

* * *

John hadn't really been asking for much—just a fresh tea towel to replace the one he dirtied with _whatever it was _that Sherlock had left on the table. Water, vodka, formaldehyde… he doesn't want to take chances.

Of course, he has the decency to be upset when he opens the closet and finds a garden rather than their spare housewares. That might be an effect of the shock, his brain trying to find something normal to relate this oddity back to.

Only, when he takes a step backwards to try again with the door (maybe the garden will disappear and he'll continue his day as he'd planned), it's not there anymore, and though he's sure it was morning, it's now twilight. It's a beautiful garden, sure, and he can hear the rushing of water nearby, as well as the distant sound of laughing voices. Lanterns twinkle about the buildings and the trees gently sway in the evening breeze.

John stands agape, torn between panic and awe, and so he misses the sound of footsteps as a tall, dark-haired figure approaches.

"I see you've grown up," the man comments dryly. "Mithrandir sent me to find you, however; he waits with Lord Elrond and two of your company in the library. Evidently you are important enough to be privy to these discussions."

It's not really relevant, but John thinks he senses a bit of jealousy in his voice. "I'm just looking for a tea towel," he explains. Grown up? What does that even mean? And who is this remarkably metrosexual man to say?

"And you're not like to find one here. Come, let's not keep them waiting." The man motions for John to follow, and feeling a bit helpless, John does.

"Sorry, but have we met?" he asks as he trots after him.

"Lindir. I greeted you when you first intruded. Granted, you were shorter then—could you not see over the tops of your dwarven companions' heads?"

"But I just got here—wait, dwarves?"

"Tell me you did not think they were _elves." _

No. That certainly wasn't the case. John makes a confused squeaking noise, and tries to keep up with Lindir, who walks remarkably fast seemingly without effort. This is probably just a ridiculous dream—the liquid on the table was likely part of it too. He's still in bed, and maybe they'll start flying so that John can confirm he's really asleep in 221B.

The library is conveniently not far, but if John had delusions of meeting someone who might explain this situation—Sherlock, maybe, or even Mycroft or Lestrade—the short bearded people are enough to prove that wrong.

"Bilbo?" one of the two tall people says—an old man with a long grey beard, wearing a matching grey outfit. The other tall one more resembles Lindir, though clearly older, and he must be the Lord that John's guide was referring to earlier.

Has he just said 'dildo?' "Sorry, what?"

"You've grown," everyone observes.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" John thinks he's exactly the same height as he's always been—granted, that's not very tall, but that just makes their comments more confusing.

"Lindir," the Lordly one says with a frown. "Have you fed him something unusual?"

"I have done no such thing, Lord Elrond. I found him and brought him to you, as you asked, and if it is all the same to you, I would take my leave."

John's not too fussed about the two of them bitching, because the two short bearded fellows have wandered over to him, circling around and poking his legs.

"Ye sure it's 'im, Thorin?" the one with the white beard asks.

"Who else would it be, Balin? He looks the same—only taller. Maybe he will be of more use now." The one called Thorin gives John a nasty look.

"I suspect something queer is at work here," Greybeard sighs. "But come—we have much to discuss before the night is over."

* * *

And that's how John spends a night listening to stories about maps with secret letters and dragons and a travelling company of dwarves. He keeps his mouth, for the most part, playing along and nodding when it seems appropriate.

It seems that they think he's a guy named Bilbo Baggins, and they're using him as a burglar to steal from a dragon—but he isn't a real burglar, as Thorin keeps insisting, which maybe is supposed to be offensive. It isn't.

John shouldn't be listening to all of this, he knows—the problem is that it all sounds very exciting, and if it's a dream, it's not one he wants to wake up from. Dragons? Even Sherlock hasn't shown him one of those on his adventures.

* * *

Their little meeting ends with Greybeard disappearing "to have some words with a few elves I know." John pretends this is normal. But as they're walking back (exactly where to, John doesn't know) from the library, he sees a door literally suspended in the middle of the path, and it looks suspiciously like the one in the flat.

"Can I just… go get a few things?" John asks. He likes the idea of an adventure and hunting dragons and everything, but he's not about to launch himself into it without the comfort of a gun at his side. Assuming this is real, of course, but even if it's not, his subconscious might thank him for the effort later on.

"Take yer time, laddie," Balin assures him, at the same time that Thorin growls "be quick about it."

* * *

John's feeling very high-spirited when he steps back through the closet door for a second time, this time with the confidence boost of an automatic weapon.

He's not familiar enough with the architecture of the foreign land to notice the designs are not Elvish in nature, and that the ground hadn't been buried under huge hoards of gold treasure before.

"Alright, I'm ready to go," he shouts when he doesn't immediately see his companions.

The treasure stirs—John starts in surprise, and promptly enters another state of shock when from its midst erupts an absolutely _enormous_ red dragon.

"Foolish man!" it roars. "Why have you entered my kingdom?"

When John remembers how to speak—it takes a few moments—he decides he'd best be polite.

"I'm very sorry and I didn't mean to," he begins, then remembers his conversation with Lindir when he'd arrived before. "I'm just looking for a tea towel…"

* * *

When he sees the door, he runs through it. The flat has never looked so beautiful ever in his life. Alright, so Sherlock didn't show him dragons, but he realised that wasn't such a bad thing after all.


End file.
